


All Change?

by die_traumerei



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel Wings, Angst, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Inspired by Fanart, Other, Religion, Religious Conflict, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-18 00:08:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19965481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/die_traumerei/pseuds/die_traumerei
Summary: After they fooled Heaven and Hell, they traded bodies back.Well, mostly they traded back. Aziraphale winds up with black wings, and Crowley with white ones.Crowley says you can't fall halfway, but Aziraphale isn't so sure -- what else can it mean, that he finally knows Heaven isn't all that good, and what does it mean that he spent millennia pretending otherwise?(Angst with plenty of comfort, and a hopeful ending.)





	All Change?

**Author's Note:**

> This story was initially inspired by [this bit of fanart.](https://thatmightyheart.tumblr.com/post/186083990637/what-if-not-everything-swapped-back-0)
> 
> Although the tone wound up going in quite another direction...
> 
> (In this story they have an established romantic relationship. I'm really interested in exploring how deeply weird and wild a millennias-long marriage between an angel and a demon would be. I don't think I really hit the true strangeness here, but it's a start.)

The champagne at the Ritz was – there was no other word for it – divine. Not _really_ divine, of course; that wouldn't have been any fun, Crowley wouldn't have been able to have any. But deserving of the title.

The little sandwiches and the cakes had been divine too. He and Crowley had enjoyed each other's company to the utmost, toasted the world and, as they got increasingly tipsy, toasted: one another, London, Tadfield, Agnes Nutter, books (Aziraphale was on his own for this one), and the mockingbird singing in Berkeley Square.

Crowley walked them both back to the bookshop, Aziraphale on his arm as they made their way through the late afternoon crowds. They pretended to be Lord Peter Wimsey and Harriet going through Piccadilly Circus, and had even sobered up, just a little, as they turned towards Soho.

“The old girl's really changed over the centuries, hasn't she?” Aziraphale commented, gazing lovingly at everything they went past, even the chain shops he mostly found abominable.

“Cities rather do,” Crowley observed. “What with the invention of...of paved roads. And trade. And things like that.” He peered myopically at a poster for a drag show. “Well. Change on the surface. Everything thinks this kind of thing is new,” he said, nodding at the poster. “Isn't really. At all.”

“Oh yes. Yes. _People_ stay the same,” Aziraphale agreed. “They don't really change much at all.” He also gazed at the poster. “Feeling ladyish, my dear?”

Crowley shrugged. “Maybe. Been a few centuries. Well, mostly, but Nanny was for convenience, not fun.”

Aziraphale nodded and patted Crowley's arm as they made their way through the city that was changed and unchanged all at the same time.

He let them into the flat above the shop and put the kettle on, ready for a bracing cup of tea to soften the landing back into sobriety. Crowley filled a pot with loose tea and found two clean mugs in the jumble of the drying rack, delivering them with a kiss on Aziraphale's cheek.

They puttered about while the tea brewed, tidying up here and there.

“Stay the night, darling?” Aziraphale asked. “Only – it would be so nice to spend it with you.”

“Of course, angel.” Crowley snapped his fingers and his outfit transformed into black silk pyjamas. “There, all ready to go.”

Aziraphale sighed, smiled, and handed him his tea. “I'll go get a bit more comfortable myself. Back in two shakes of a lamb's tail.”

Crowley's moan of despair at his old-fashionedness so delighted Aziraphale that he decided to truly give into comfort. Not just plodding around in his slippers and shirtsleeves and waistcoat, which was usually quite enough, but letting his wings out.

He hung his coat carefully to air, changed into his slippers, and let his wings out with a sigh, stretching them carefully in the small room. Crowley had insisted on installing a full-length mirror, and had even found one rococo enough for Aziraphale's taste. Feeling particularly non-angelic, Aziraphale snuck a proud look at himself.

His strangled scream summoned Crowley almost immediately. He came flailing through the door, butterknife in one hand, already howling about just leaving the two of them  _alone_ for twenty-four bloody  _hours_ already.

“Whoashit,” Crowley said when he saw Aziraphale.

“Your wings!” Aziraphale said.

“I—uh. I guess maybe they are.”

“No, you idiot! Show me your wings!”

And Crowley unfolded beautiful, brilliant white wings, the perfect inverse of the inky black ones that curved gracefully from Aziraphale's back.

They blinked at one another, and Aziraphale gasped, one hand flying to his mouth.

“Crowley! They don't hurt you dear, do they?”

“Huh? No, why would they – oh.” Crowley tilted his head to one side. “Angel, I've touched your wings plenty and been all right. I don't think it's like holy water or whatever. They don't hurt.” 

Aziraphale reached over Crowley's shoulder and stroked the tips of the white feathers. “All right.” He took a deep breath. “Good. Good, we can work with this.”

He craned around to look at his own wings, and reached up to touch them.

“All good?” Crowley asked.

“All good,” Aziraphale said, and showed him his hand. “No hellfire burn. But of course I've touched your wings, and it's been fine.” He shook his head. “Tea. That's what we need.”

“I was going to say whiskey, but let's try it your way first,” Crowley said dryly.

“Cheek,” Aziraphale scolded, and booped him on the nose. “Whiskey in the tea?”

“Now you're talking, angel,” Crowley said.

“Let us begin by going over the options,” Aziraphale said, after their tea was properly doctored. 

“We're _fucked_ ,” Crowley said, drawing out the first vowel as he flopped onto the sofa with his usual drama. He'd necked the whiskey bottle before Aziraphale had reclaimed it for their tea.

“Yes, dear,” Aziraphale said, hitting just the right point between ignoring Crowley and acknowledging that a sound had come out of his mouth. “So. Option one, we haven't entirely switched bodies back.”

“ _One_ ,” Crowley drawled. He held up a finger, to add to his point.

“Option two,” Aziraphale said, taking neat notes while his demon somehow took up far more space than anyone would expect of someone that skinny. He paused a moment to be thankful that very large beds now existed and could be easily obtained. “Option two – we went too far.”

“ _Two_ ,” Crowley said, flicking two fingers at heaven, and fell off of the sofa. “Buh?”

Aziraphale spread his wings and curled one around, stroking the black feather. It was pure black, perfectly matte, and it was beautiful, he thought. “We went too far,” he said quietly. “We weren't on our sides. We fooled Heaven and Hell. We got the wrong Anti-Christ. Maybe. Maybe I fell a little, and you...un-fell a little.”

Crowley was on his feet in a moment. “ _No_ ,” he insisted. “'s not that. Never that.” His hands were shaking, and Aziraphale got up from his seat at that. He took Crowley's hands in his, tried to still that terrible trembling. “It doesn't work that way angel,” Crowley said in an ugly voice. “I told you. I don't get  _forgiven_ . You don't get to go back up, never, that's the  _point_ of demons.” He gave a shaky sigh. “And you can't fall halfway. You're still an angel, never fear.”

“I never said that I feared that,” Aziraphale said, and drew Crowley into an embrace, careful around his wings. “Never.”

“More fool you,” Crowley said.

“Why? It's not like Heaven ever loved me,” Aziraphale said. “I'm a pretty poor angel.”

“Well, then I'm a pretty poor demon,” Crowley argued.

“And so we find ourselves on our own side again,” Aziraphale mused. He sighed, and kissed Crowley. “Well, so it goes. S'pose we'll get used to it.”

“Maybe it'll change back?” Crowley offered.

“Maybe,” Aziraphale said doubtfully.

They were quiet, standing together.

“I don't want them to change back,” Aziraphale said softly.

“What?” Crowley blinked. “You need more whiskey.”

“Yes, I do,” Aziraphale said. “But not because of this.” He slipped away from Crowley, and poured them each a generous tumbler, foregoing the tea entirely now.

Crowley joined him on the sofa, reaching over to stroke the edge of his wing. “You can't possibly like them.”

“But I do, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “Very much.” He smiled at Crowley's hand against his wings. “They're beautiful. And I like that they're yours. _Your_ black wings. I have something of you with me always now.”

“Oh, angel,” Crowley said, in a voice too near to weeping. “You--”

“You nearly lost me,” Aziraphale said softly. “You did, in a way. My poor Crowley. This way – you have something of me with you, no matter what.”

“ _No_ ,” Crowley said, and crawled into Aziraphale's arms, face pressed hard into his chest. “I don't need something _of_ you because I have _you_. I am never losing you again.”

“That is rather the plan,” Aziprahale comforted him. “Oh, my love, my demon boy, you were so... _bereft_. I'm so sorry.”

Crowley didn't say anything, just held on tight while Aziraphale tried to fill the air with angelic love. Crowley could sense it still, just a little, and Aziraphale would light up the whole world if it would comfort the sad demon in his arms.

“Do you hate them very much?” he asked shyly, when Crowley had eased a little. He trailed a fingertip along a white primary, smiling at the way the barbels folded and fluttered under the pressure. “If you wanted to hide them, to make them always appear black – I'd understand.”

Crowley was quiet a long time. “No,” he finally said. “I don't hate them. They're beautiful. But they're not...mine.”

“No forgiveness, right,” Aziraphale said. He remembered what he had said in the bandstand and winced. He was going to have to beg some forgiveness himself. No, not beg – _earn_. “I'm sorry,” he said quietly. “You never asked for this.”

“Neither did you,” Crowley pointed out.

“It's different, though.” Aziraphale flicked his wings up and around Crowley, making them a dark little cave to be alone in. “You're so beautiful, darling. Your wings give me some of that beauty.”

“You're plenty beautiful on your own,” Crowley said darkly, but there was no real heat behind the words.

“Mmm.” Aziraphale started to rub Crowley's back, easing the muscles between the great white wings. 

“Aziraphale?”

“What is it, my dear?” Aziraphale asked. It was some time later, maybe hours later. He wasn't sure – he'd lost himself in touching Crowley, stroking his back and his hair and his wings, trying to show how he was loved. How they were their own side, and belonged to each other. The wings just made it a little clearer. And maybe they would trade back, eventually. Aziraphale pushed away a little bit of sadness at that thought – he liked seeing Crowley with something of _him_. It made it all feel real; that he had a place to belong now.

“Can we sleep tonight too? Together?”

“Oh, love. Of course.” Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley's waist and slowly lowered his wings. It was dark in the shop, and he snapped a finger to give them a little light, just enough to see by. It must have been hours that they lay there, he figured. “Join me in a bath first? Please?”

“If you want,” Crowley said, which was as good a 'yes, whatever you ask of me, yes' as he ever gave.

Aziraphale kissed his forehead, hid his wings away, and waited for Crowley to do the same. “No pain?” he asked anxiously, still a little worried that if they were truly  _his_ wings, and holy, they could potentially burn.

“None.” Crowley stayed in his arms a little bit longer. “I don't think anything of you could hurt me anyway.”

“Just thoughtless words,” Aziraphale said. “My own stubbornness.”

“ _Zira_.”

Aziraphale smiled sadly. “No, I know what you meant. Come on, love, up you go.” Crowley rolled off of him and helped Aziraphale up, and they headed up to the little flat above the shop.

Aziraphale started to draw the bath while Crowley undressed. He added sweet oil, and made sure there were fresh towels, and everything he liked best. And, gentlemanly, he helped Crowley into the steaming bath before undressing himself.

“Good Lord, angel, even the underwear's antique?” Crowley asked.

“Silk drawers never go out of style,” Aziraphale informed him, as he removed said garment. “Besides, they feel nice.”

“Hedonist,” Crowley said, as he slipped further under the water, enjoying having the whole bath to himself. Two men-sized creatures were a little bit of a squish in Aziraphale's tub, but then, they usually enjoyed the squish part.

Aziraphale didn't dignify Crowley's words with an answer, just lightly kicked his legs out of the way and climbed in so that they both sat up, knees drawn up and feet touching underwater.

He reached out and ran a hand over Crowley's leg, bony and slender, knobbly knee under his hand. He rubbed his thumb over a little dip, where the bones under the skin curved and moved, the parts of the joint there.

“Crowley, I don't think I fell, but something changed,” he said, and let the feelings start to well up in him, now that he was safe. “I saw. I understood. All those things you've been trying to tell me. All the things you _knew_ I knew.” He bit his lip hard, tears welling up. “I can't pretend anymore. I thought we were supposed to do _good_. That there wouldn't be a war.” He wiped his eyes, hand harsh on his skin. “I don't believe any of that anymore. I don't want to fight again. They are all so _cruel_.” He wept harder. “I'm so sorry. Please, please, can you ever forgive my ignorance, my fear?”

“Angel, oh, Aziraphale.” Crowley reached for him, gathered him close, shifting them so that Aziraphale lay between his legs and in his arms. “It doesn't work like that. You don't ask _my_ forgiveness. I neither get it, nor give it.”

Aziraphale cried harder.

“You get my love,” Crowley said simply. “Same as Her. You still have Her love, even I can feel it.”

Aziraphale nodded, trembling even in the warm of the bath. “Love isn't faith. And I don't know if I have --” He stopped talking, not ready to give that into the universe.

“No, it isn't,” Crowley said.

“I have faith in you,” Aziraphale said, and didn't see Crowley close his eyes tight, giving nothing away with his breathing.

“What did I tell you?” Crowley murmured, sweeping warm water over Aziraphale's body with one hand, trying to soothe. “Deep down, you were worth knowing, from the moment we met. That's the one for me, I said. That's the angel that's not like the rest of them. He's _him_.”

Aziraphale made a choking sound. “I thought. I thought you were _kind_ ,” he said. “But you were the enemy, and I was a stupid fool. We killed _children_ , Crowley.”

“So did my side,” Crowley said softly. “Both our sides are complete bastards.”

“Yes, but you knew it all along,” Aziraphale said. “I did too, but I couldn't be _honest_.”

“No,” Crowley said. “But you were good. Are good. You mess up. Fine, whatever. But you love, angel. You try. You do what you can, I watch you every day.”

Aziraphale managed a damp nod. This tear in his heart wouldn't get solved in a night, or ever. But he wasn't alone. He was entirely beloved by Crowley, and that promised him the world.

“Let us then try what Love will do,” he said softly, and looked up at Crowley. “Humans are good every day. Some of them, anyway. So I can be too.”

Crowley smiled down at him, and smoothed a hand through his curls, dampening them. “Long as you're a bit of a bastard, while you're at it.”

Aziraphale managed a giggle at that, and turned over, burying his face in Crowley's chest while Crowley splashed water over his body, keeping him warm. “Ugh,” he said. “Revelations. Dreadful things.”

“Indeed,” Crowley said, more comforted by this than anything else since they'd discovered the wing situation. If Aziraphale was being very English, he was going to be all right. Which meant they were both going to be all right.

Crowley got them out of the bath when they started to go a little pruney. They towelled off together, and he helped Aziraphale into a heavy silk kimono, admiring the embroidery.

“Oh, thank you my dear,” Aziraphale smiled and touched a bright thread. “It was a gift from a friend, a long time ago. No, not you, I have other friends.”

Crowley made a disbelieving sound and got a pinch for his troubles. His pyjamas had transformed in a black silk nightgown, and _that_ got him an admiring look and a soft hand laid on his now-bared chest for a moment. He offered Aziraphale his arm for the short walk down the hall to the bedroom, and was rewarded with a kiss.

Crowley sprawled on the bed immediately, lazily watching Aziraphale go through his nightly rituals, cleaning his nails and running a comb through his hair, the wild curls going a little fluffier. He exchanged the kimono for his own pyjamas, white linen to contrast with Crowley's black silk, and finally slid under the duvet and into Crowley's arms.

“What a handsome picture we are,” he sighed, as black wings appeared again, one resting lightly across their bodies. “You don't mind, do you darling?”

“Of course not,” Crowley assured him. Aziraphale's wings still smelled of frankincense, of ancient things and safe places. He did not unfold his own wings.

“I love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said.

“I love you too,” Crowley said, leaning in for a kiss. He didn't linger too long – they were both ready to sleep. He relished the feeling of spending the night holding one another, and then the joy of waking up together as sunlight fought its way past the curtains, and Aziraphale forgot to open up his shop again.

Aziraphale pushed his way deeper into Crowley's arms, and they fell asleep like that, holding each other tight against the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Aziraphale quotes William Penn when he says 'Let us then try what Love will do'. This show got all up in my Quaker feelings, and now I need to make art to deal with it.
> 
> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


End file.
